Blue Jean Baby
by Maveness
Summary: And first there is friendship.


Blue Jean Baby  
  
by Maveness Delight  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own or profit off of any of the people in this story. Smallville belongs to the WB. Darn them. And all of the bands mentioned belong to MCA Records, Columbia Records, Tallyrand Music, BMI, and A&M Records. So don't sue me, unless you relish owning a bunch of junk and an extremely hyper dog.  
  
Feedback: Yes please. With a healthy topping of whipped cream with a nice juicy cherry. Constructive criticism is welcome, but flamers will be catapulted into the farthest regions of outer space. After all, fire can't survive without oxygen. Mavenessdelight@yahoo.com  
  
  
  
  
  
"Okay, your dad is officially weird."  
  
I looked across the attic at Clark who was sitting beside an old trunk, sorting through its contents. There were stacks of musty boxes littering the floor, an old, unused Barbie dream house in the corner and mom's rowing machine draped in a sheet sitting half shoved behind a rusty sled.  
  
Clark had decided to pop by for a surprise visit on what had been officially dubbed Sullivan Clean-Up Day. This was an annual summertime event, so he had quickly been delegated to helping me with the hideous chore of cleaning out the attic.  
  
He, of course, didn't understand why it was hideous. Imagine digging through all of the junk that could possibly be accumulated in approximately 42 years on this earth, add in the pack rat gene and a strong dash of sentimentality, and what you have is hours of making choices to discard that ultimately result in some person saying it can't possibly be thrown out and putting it back in the attic for another year. The arguments we've gotten in over that rowing machine alone are the stuff of legend.  
  
So there was no telling what Clark had found. Maybe it was a picture of my dad from his disco days. The Rod Stewart hair could be very frightening.  
  
"Whatever you found, let me remind you that I am not my father and in fact hold very little in common with him, so do not judge me by his weirdness."  
  
Clark chuckled and held up his find. Records. Old record albums. If I remembered correctly, my dad's musical tastes tended to be pretty tame, so what could possibly be in there?  
  
So I got up and moved over to sit beside him. It wasn't like the box of clothing that looked suspiciously like polyester was yielding anything.  
  
Clark was holding one album in particular. Okay. Have to give him this one. Definitely of the weird.  
  
"Tiny Tim?"  
  
"Well, my dad once told me that Tiptoe Through The Tulips was an awesome song back then."  
  
Clark stared at me in disbelief.  
  
"My guess is that he was smoking something. Drugs had to have been involved. Either that or he was brainwashed by the establishment. That being my mother's theory."  
  
Clark shook his head.  
  
"I'd almost rather believe the brainwashing theory. At least then there was no way he could have willingly bought...that."  
  
I reached into the trunk for more albums.  
  
"All of his musical tastes weren't bad. There's a few in here that I love too."  
  
Clark selected an album from the middle of the stack.  
  
"I can't imagine liking some of my dad's music."  
  
I glanced at him. The tone of his voice gave the hint that he wished he could. Like it would be bridging a gap. I knew he had been having some trouble with his dad lately, but this melancholy indicated it was worse than I thought.  
  
"Oh, come on. I'm sure it can't be that bad. Conway Twitty sang some good stuff. And Tammy Wynette is just too fabulous for words."  
  
Laughter this time.  
  
"The only country albums my dad has are Johnny Cash. He tended to lean toward groups like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, those types. Classic rock."  
  
"Ah, a purist," I said in true know-it-all fashion. "Well let me tell you Clark, there is a world beyond classic rock. In fact, it's a diverse, interesting world, filled with crazy and beautiful musicians."  
  
I reached across him to grab a particularly fun one and went into infomercial salesman mode.  
  
"Take this one for instance. Joe Cocker's Mad Dogs & Englishmen. A little man with big hair who goes into spasmodic fits when behind a microphone. This particular album has many old favorites on it. Cry Me A River. I've Been Loving You Too Long. The Letter. Space Captain. Oh, and my personal favorite, and I hope soon to be yours, Let's Go Get Stoned."  
  
Clark laughed and picked up one for himself.  
  
"I'd say this one has more charm than Joe Cocker. Neil Diamond's Double Gold. Apparently Neil believes that the best way to name a song is to just say it twice. Monday Monday. Cherry, Cherry. Red Red Wine. Oh No No. Hey, here's some variety. Love To Love. See? A word between the loves. Do you think this implies distance between the two lovers? Maybe it's the distance caused by Neil's hair."  
  
I had started giggling on Monday Monday and was sagged on the floor, leaning on his leg by Love to Love. I fished through the stack until I came up with a doozy. Well, not so much a doozy for the music, but more for the cover.  
  
"And this gem. Elton John's Greatest Hits, circa 1974. Note the overly large glasses, the white fedora, the multicolored bow tie, the cane. Garish. Grotesque. And yet oddly mesmerizing, as this is the man who sings such songs as Daniel and Rocket Man."  
  
Clark shuddered.  
  
"And you pick on me for the flannel."  
  
I swatted his leg.  
  
"Well you're not a lumberjack. The way you wear the stuff I'd swear your hero was Paul Bunyan."  
  
Clark rolled his eyes at me and grabbed another album.  
  
"Now this one even I know is great. Bookends. Simon and Garfunkel. Mrs. Robinson. Now that song is great."  
  
I took it from him. Melancholy music was not on order for someone who was feeling melancholy.  
  
"I don't feel like being depressed. So no more Simon & Garfunkel. Choose something cheerful that you can really make fun of. Like...this," and I held up a particularly scary one.  
  
Clark stared in horror.  
  
"You're kidding me. Please tell me you're joking. That is bad Chloe."  
  
"Hey! Didn't you watch Nick at Nite? The Monkees rock. Davy Jones was so cute."  
  
"The Monkees weren't even a band. They were a television show. It's like buying an album of The Partridge Family or something."  
  
Wait, I think...I started digging in the trunk.  
  
"Please tell me your dad doesn't have a Partridge Family album."  
  
I dug some more.  
  
"My dad does not and never has had a Partridge Family album. Now if I can...here we go!"  
  
And I produced a Partridge Family record, all shiny and psychedelic.  
  
"This would be my mom's Partridge Family album."  
  
Clark looked at me with a mixture of disgust and horror.  
  
"Remind me to distance myself from your family before their weirdness rubs off on me. By today's standards, I might find myself listening to Britney Spears."  
  
"Clark, don't worry. If I ever find you listening to Britney Spears I'll kill you and put you out of your misery. It's only humane."  
  
Clark had started in on the stack again and came up with another Neil Diamond.  
  
"How many of these does he have? Geez. Look at that hair. How can you take anyone seriously who is so clueless about their hair?"  
  
To let it go or attack with everything I've got. Oh the choices. To bang or not to bang, that is the question.  
  
"Gee Clark, if you let your hair grow out you could look just like Neil."  
  
"You know, this could be a story for the Torch. An ongoing column about the musical tastes of Smallville High students and their parents."  
  
The sad look was back in his eye. All those cobwebs of self-doubt and conflicted emotions. How can I tell him that it's normal to fight with your parents, especially when you're so much like them? He's got to live it. Experience it. Grow from it. Their relationship may be hard now, but down the road it'll be strong again. In the meantime, I'll do what any friend does. Cheer him up. Be a shoulder to lean on.  
  
"Here we are sifting through these things and we should be listening to one of them."  
  
I picked up one I knew he would enjoy. One nice thing about movies these days - nostalgia. When a director wanted to go back to his childhood, it meant revisiting older music that really was good.  
  
"Just make sure it's something I'll like. Nothing by Susan Day and no ukulele's please."  
  
The record player started to play the opening bars as I pulled Clark to his feet.  
  
"Don't worry. Just a great groupie song. Now shut up and dance with me."  
  
And while Tiny Dancer filled the attic, I danced with Clark, who was not nearly as hopeless a dancer as you would think. By the end of the song he had a smile on his face as he grabbed me and twirled me around.  
  
He grinned down at me, a gentler version of the mega-watt Kent one.  
  
"Thanks Chloe," he murmured. Then a gentle kiss on the cheek.  
  
For you Clark. Only for you.  
  
The End 


End file.
